The Aftermath of Surgery
by LyricalSinger
Summary: The outcome of a simple day surgery. A/N: A fluffy little one-shot that shows that, despite outward appearances, Sherlock really does care about his flat mate. As always, thanks to my wonderful beta sarajm. Reviews and constructive criticisms are always welcome.


**Summary: The outcome of a simple day surgery.**

A/N: A fluffy little one-shot that shows that, despite outward appearances, Sherlock really does care about his flat mate. As always, thanks to my wonderful beta sarajm.

Reviews and constructive criticisms are always welcome.

* * *

The Aftermath of Surgery

John was unlocking the front door of 221B when his mobile rang. He was just returning from his appointment with Dr. Singh, a colleague at the clinic where John worked as locum. John had been feeling under the weather for the past few days: he'd just about lost his voice completely, and swallowing was so painful - it felt like a prickly burr had taken up residence in his throat.

A quick examination was all it took for Dr. Singh to determine the problem. "It's tonsillitis again, John. I'll take a throat swab to be sure, but this is what? the fifth or sixth time in the past couple of years?"

John nodded, swallowed with a grimace and managed to rasp, "Yeah … and I think the time has come for removal."

"I agree, John. Fortunately, it's an in-and-out surgery so at least you won't have to stay overnight at the hospital, barring any complications. Let me take the throat swab and I can have the results in about an hour. I'll make arrangements for your day surgery and I'll give you a prescription for some antibiotics in the meantime."

"Thanks Leo. I appreciate this," responded John as he got off the exam table and, putting on his jacket and stuffing the script in his pocket, shook hands with Dr. Singh and headed towards the office door.

"I'll call you by the end of the day with the test results and to let you know when the surgery will be," said Dr. Singh as he held the door open for John.

"Okay; talk to you later," responded John as he headed down the hall towards reception and then home.

* * *

Back at the front door to 221B, John slipped his ringing phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen and saw the caller id as being the clinic. "John Watson speaking."

"John, it's Leo. I just got the test results and I hate to say it, but you've definitely got tonsillitis. Again. I've made an appointment for you at St. Bart's for next Thursday to have them removed. Someone from the day clinic will be in touch either later today or tomorrow to let you know the time and what you'll need to do to prepare for the surgery. I'm really sorry it's come down to this, mate. But I'll tell you what, once you've fully recovered we'll have a night at the Pub."

"Sounds good, Leo. I look forward to it. As for the surgery … I've only got myself to blame. This is what happens when you keep putting things off, right? Talk soon. Bye."

As he tramped up the stairs to the flat, John was thinking "Great. Surgery." It wasn't that he was afraid of undergoing an operation; after all, he'd been shot and subjected to multiple surgeries to repair his shoulder. His concern was more of the 'how-is-Sherlock-going-to-take-this?' type.

The Doctor stepped into the flat with one intention: Tea: the great panacea. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, fingers tented under this chin, obviously lost in his mind palace. John just smiled at his flat mate, then went to put the kettle on. A couple of minutes later, he stepped back into the sitting room, placed a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and relaxed back into his own chair.

While he didn't usually add anything to his tea except a dash of milk, this time John had added a dollop of honey to the fragrant brew. One sip and he sighed in contentment. He could feel the sweet nectar almost coating his throat and, for once, swallowing was not an exercise in torture.

The small sound emanating from John was enough to rouse the World's Only Consulting Detective from his torpor. His eyes snapped open and he fixed John with a searching gaze. Well used to being deduced by this time, John simply looked over at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows in query.

"Really John? Tonsillitis at your age?" said Sherlock has he picked up his mug and took a sip of tea. "I thought it was mostly a childhood complaint."

"Oi, I'm not that old," said John with a grimace. Despite the tea and honey, he was still in some pain and speaking was no less painful than swallowing. "Besides, I'm having them removed next Thursday."

Sherlock stared at John over the rim of his mug. "How long will you be out of commission?"

"Don't worry, Sherlock. It's a day surgery with a couple days recovery. I promise I won't inconvenience you," responded John with a slight bit of sarcasm in his tone.

"Good," answered the detective with a smile, "because I would be lost without my blogger."

* * *

The day of the surgery arrived and as John was putting on his jacket, he turned to Sherlock who was seated at the kitchen table, hunched over his microscope.

"Sherlock," called John from the sitting room.

"Sherlock!" he called again, as he walked into the kitchen.

"Hmmm?" answered the lanky detective, not looking up from his microscope.

"SHERLOCK! Look at me," snapped the slightly anxious ex-Army doctor.

Surprised, Sherlock looked up at his flat mate standing just inside the doorway.

"I'm on my way to Bart's. My surgery is in a couple of hours. You are still coming to pick me up, right? I'm not allowed to leave the hospital unless I'm accompanied by someone, so please don't forget me."

"John, John, John. Stop worrying," responded Sherlock in a condescending tone. "I'll be there at 4:00 as per your instructions. Don't worry; I won't forget. Good luck and I'll see you later." And with a dismissive wave of his hand towards the doctor, Sherlock went back to his experiment.

As he thumped down the steps and out the front door, John was muttering under his breath in a snarky tone, "Don't worry, he says. I won't forget you, he says. He'd better not forget or there will be hell to pay!"

Five hours later, John was sitting in recovery, still slightly loopy from the general anesthetic. The surgery had gone well and now he was minus his tonsils and feeling no pain. One of the nurses came by and said, "Doctor Watson, how are we feeling?"

John just looked up, gave her a beatific smile and whispered, "Good. I feel good. I knew that I would now. So good! So good, I got you!"

The nurse just giggled, patted John's shoulder and said "Glad to know. Is someone coming to pick you up?"

John nodded his head and with a very serious look on his face said, "Sh'lok's coming. He's a genius. He promised. He'll be here at 4:00 as per my 'structions."

"Okaaaayyy," responded the nurse with a smile. "I'll just let you know when he arrives."

Well, four o'clock came and went; and half-four came and went; and five o'clock came and went; but still no Sherlock. As he was still a little under the influence of the anesthetic, John was not fully aware of the passing of time, but he was cognizant enough to realize that Sherlock was late.

"I _knew_ he'd forget me! Stupid git. Sounds like 'nit'. Sherlock has _ni-its_! Sherlock has _ni-its_!" giggled John.

Just then, Sherlock came running into recovery. He skidded to a stop by John's chair and gasping for breath said "John, I know, I'm late. I'm so sorry, but it's all Lestrade's fault. He called me out for a 'juicy murder', but it was a suicide, and only a four! What a waste of time! Anyway, here I am. I've signed the relevant papers and you're allowed to leave, so let's just go home." While he was talking, the curly-haired detective was manhandling John out of the chair, into his jacket and down the hall towards the exit.

Sherlock pushed John into a taxi, slid in beside him and barked "Baker Street" to the driver. He then turned to his flat mate and asked, "How did the surgery go?"

John just stared at Sherlock then reached over and patted his head. "Your hair is curly. Did you know your hair is curly? It's sooooo curly!"

"Hmmmm, I think we need to get you home and into bed," said Sherlock with a grin, as he tried to bat John's hand away from his hair.

"But people will talk," whispered John with a snort.

Sherlock smirked at his companion and said "_You_ into _your_ bed, John. What _are_ you thinking?"

"Ahhh, my bed, yes. Bed sounds good. I could go to sleep right here," said the still slightly-high doctor as he gave a jaw-cracking yawn and then proceeded to list to the right. His head dropped onto Sherlock's shoulder and he was out like a light.

Sherlock looked down at his sleeping friend, a gentle smile on his face. Then he simply wrapped his left arm around the Doctor's shoulders to settle him more comfortably and said to the cabbie in a low tone, "Change of plans. Keep driving, and I'll tell you when to stop. He's had a hard day and needs some sleep."


End file.
